


Vanilla Beans

by Write_like_an_American



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anal Sex, BDSM, BDSM to Vanilla, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Dominant Kraglin, Dominant Yondu, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Schmoop, Sickening schmoop with a side dollop of BDSM, Sloppy Makeouts, Submissive Kraglin, Submissive Yondu, Switching, Versatile Kraglin, Versatile Yondu, but with like.... emotional plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-12
Updated: 2017-10-12
Packaged: 2019-01-16 08:42:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12339303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Write_like_an_American/pseuds/Write_like_an_American
Summary: Yondu and Kraglin think they have to be oh-so-tough in the bedroom. They're wrong.Written for a tumblr prompt - 'Something where Kraglin and Yondu are both trying to outkink each other to prove something but secretly want mushy vanilla sex'.





	Vanilla Beans

**Author's Note:**

> **I love tumblr prompts, and wish I had more time to fill them, haha**

When Ravagers fuck, they fuck hard. Everyone knows it, from A'askavaria to Zog. Why do you think they crowd the redcoats whenever they make landfall, men and women and more, trading heated glances over the lips of their drinks? Why do you think they sip and simmer and let sultry drops slide down, shimmer-trails painted on cleavage and thighs that would open at a brush, a touch, a word? Why do you think whores charge double for a flame-patch? It's cause they know they'll have bruises in the morning.

The Ravagers know it too. Rockhopping life ain't easy. It's fast-paced and brutal and all too often cut short. They live every moment like it's their last, whether on the battlefield or the bedroom.

Which means that sometimes, the bedroom and the battlefield collide.

Kraglin’s on his knees, blindfolded, mouth stretched around a spidergag sized to fit Yondu’s cock. He’s been immobilized a couple of hours, so far. Nothing to see but the black silk stretched over his eyes, nothing to feel but the cold hard floor. 

He suspects it’s to make him quivery and desperate. Maybe even get him to beg. Unfortunately, all it’s giving him is leg cramp.

He’s a Ravager though. Hardship is second nature. If captain gets off on seeing him all trussed up and pretty, Kraglin will soldier through the pins and needles, and the distinct sensation that he’s being stabbed behind the knee.

Finally, after stars-know how long spent flexing his sore calf muscles and willing himself not to nod off, he’s touched. 

Yondu’s hand, rough and warm and familiar. It smells of leather and dick. He nuzzles it, feigning the desperation his captain wants to see, and chokes up a whimper from the pit of his throat, teeth champing helplessly on rubber.

“Is this doin’ anythin’ for ya?” Yondu growls. He thumbs the drool on Kraglin’s chin, smearing it into the stubble. And because it’s what he wants to hear, needs to hear, Kraglin swallows his self-consciousness. He ignores the pressure welts on his kneecaps and the encroaching ache of lockjaw, and refuses to think about how much he’d rather be snuggled up with his captain in a plush hotel bed, no need for all this bondage paraphernalia, nothing but skin between them.

He nods, and gargles ‘yes’ as best he can.

 

* * *

 

Yondu’s a good liar. Usually, he’s proud of it.

Usually, he ain’t pinned facedown over a console, Kraglin bouncing away behind him, huffing and snarling and  _yipping_ like he’s some feral thing.

Here’s the problem: Yondu has a sense of humor. A sadistic one, at times. But he knows Kraggles has hang-ups, knows he gets shy and flushed – not in a good way – and retreats into himself when someone mocks him for his little nubbin of a chin, his overbite, his big watery eyes that would look better suited to a puppy than a pirate.

Yondu gets it. He truly does. Men deal with being looked down on in different ways. He himself butchered every slaver who ever stamped their brand on his skin, working down a methodical list. He pays to have their insignia carved from his back one by one, lasers searing scars in exchange for each Kree noble he introduces to his arrow.

If Kraglin thinks he can reassert his masculinity by fucking his captain like he’s a mindless bot, Yondu wishes him all the luck in the world.

But he can’t help but snigger, when the squeals reach a pitch better suited to Orloni.

The thwack of bony hipbones against his buttocks ceases. Yondu has to grip the console when Kraglin pulls out, scratching buttons and toggle-switches. His hands curl around levers locked out in dock. He arches and gasps and  _shudders_ at the burn of it, the opening gape inside him, muscle tenderized like steak under a mallet by the relentless pop and squelch of a Hraxian knot.

“You laughin’ at me?” Kragliin hisses. Yondu, hole cold without the weight of a cock, shakes his head. Kraglin scoffs. “Liar. This what you want sir? You a brat? Need to be punished, huh?”

To be honest, Yondu finds Kraglin’s big bad pirate act more dorky than daunting. It don’t spark no fires in his loins. He disguises his sigh as a hungry gasp, when a palm meets his asscheek in a crack. “Y-yessir…”

It’s for Kraglin’s sake, that’s all. So he muses as he folds his arms under his chest, protecting the tender line of his pouch from the console controls. He does his damned best to enjoy the spanks, as Kraglin’s thin fingers crack like strings on a cat o’nine.

Kid thinks this is fun? Beats himself off to the thought of demeaning his captain, pretending he’s got what it takes to put him in his place? Yondu likes him enough to play along. 

Come morning though, Yondu has nothing to show for his generosity except a bruised posterior and an empty…

Well. He doesn’t want to say  _soul._ No lights are due to shine over his grave. It’s better to pray he doesn’t have one of those – if he does, he doesn’t want to know where it’s going.

But there’s a hollowness inside of him. Wherever it emanates from ( _har-de-fuckin’-har-har;_ not his ass) he doesn’t like it.

He also doesn’t like the way Kraglin’s shape on the mattress besides him, silhouetted under night-dimmed solars, facing Yondu with his mouth slightly agape and nose vibrating with the force of his snores, makes him feel more satiated than any of their bed-testing romps thus far. Something ain’t right. Something’s gotta change. Yondu cares about the git, for a whole host of reasons that ain’t nearly so unfathomable as he likes to pretend. 

Kraglin is loyal. 

Kraglin is kind (although he hides it under snark and slyness and obsessive little tics with his knives). 

Kraglin deserves better than a farce, when they’re squidging their groins together in every way conceivable for bog-standard dick-sporting males.

And Yondu wants to give him more. He wants to watch Kraglin come apart as Yondu pulls his cock to the back of his throat; wants to feel its hot bulb, slippery with precum, rubbing through his thighs from behind. He wants to gather all those spiky limbs in his arms, and rest his ear on his ribs so he can hear the trapped bird fluttering within. 

He wants to kiss him. Not uncage their tongues on either side of an Orloni baiting ring and let them battle for dominance, or any other cliche ripped straight from a cheesy Xandarian erotic datapad. Just a kiss, mouths roving and exploring as they hold their dicks two-together, white fingers overlinking blue …

Shit. Yondu Udonta wants to  _make love._

 

* * *

 

Next time they fall onto their sheets, which have been washed impossibly less than they have, they’re too tired to do more than cuddle. Kraglin hates that he’s glad about it.

His chest hair tickles Yondu’s back. Their breathing aligns, each inhale and exhale measured a little longer or shorter until they match. When Kraglin drapes an arm over his captain, faking a stretch – casual, casual; he’s gotta be casual – Yondu doesn’t claw away. He actually snuggles back, just a little – such a small motion it could be passed off as him trying to get comfortable across their lumpy molehill-lawn of dropped trinkets and empty lube tubes and busted mattress springs.

When Kraglin peeks at his face, pushing up on his elbow, he finds it lax in sleep. Or at least, most of it is. There’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth, something contented and small that Kraglin doesn’t think he’s ever seen, for all the times he’s had Yondu under him.

“Love ya sir,” he murmurs.

Yondu doesn’t reply. But there’s a sweaty sandwich of an armpit on his bicep. Yondu wraps his arm over Kraglin’s to keep them clasped together through the cosmic turbulence, as the  _Eclector_ slingshots round a star.

No need for words. Really, that says it all.

 

* * *

 

The battle’s long and hard. Enough to get passions broiling, a dust devil of sparks whirling in the veins of every hot-blooded Ravager. 

When Yondu drags Kraglin back to his cabin, no one questions it. The crew are a sea of averting eyes. They cough into fists, focusing on tallying spoils and divvying up shares rather than their captain and mate's after-hour proclivities.

Yondu’s gotta keep up appearances. He can’t press their foreheads together and let the adrenaline shakes vibrate them in synchrony. He can’t clutch Kraglin’s hand tighter than Kraglin held his blaster pistols, feeling where the grips have ingrained their pattern into his skin. He definitely can’t crawl onto his lap like a stars-damned fucking child and whisper  _thought I lost ya for a moment_ in a grubby white ear.

But he can spin Kraglin onto the floor and sit on his crotch hard enough to make him wince. There’s a jumpsuit and a codpiece and two pairs of tatty underwear in the way, but those are logistical problems Yondu will deal with later. For now, he needs to make a connection, and this is the only way that men like them are allowed to feel.

“Gonna ride ya til ya scream,” he purrs. He gets a rhythm going, rolling his hips so the leather sticks and skids. He swivels on Kraglin’s dick, rocking in pulses – fast, frenzied, chasing sensation more than sensuality. “Gonna make you look at me like I’m a goddamn star…”

“What,” Kraglin chokes. “Squinty-eyed and cryin’?” 

His hands settle on Yondu’s waist. The jacket gives him a trimmer cut than usual, and Yondu preens as his man looks him over, grin a glinting crescent amid the blue of his face. They’re both filthy, sweat and blood and mud and worse. It won’t be long before the stink of the battle infests their pores, impossible to scour out with anything less than a loofah and a concoction of high-grade solvents as likely to brew mustard gas as get them clean. 

They gotta do this now, before the moment is lost.

Yondu’s eyeteeth pull on his top lip. He pushes onto his knees, making space to work down the zip. He eases Kraglin’s dick from where it’s parcelled up behind its protective cup, all pretty and pink like a gift for the unwrapping, rasps his own zipper down and –

“Stop,” Kraglin says. 

Yondu does. Immediately, no questions asked. Just freezes, right there, one hand in his mate’s pants and the other in his own, feeling – loathe as any Ravager captain would be to admit it – a little bit awkward.

“Ya wanna lead?” he asks, climbing off him. “All ya gotta do’s say. Here.” Hands and knees, because he presented himself like that once and ain’t never gotten an indication that Kraglin dislikes it. He fingers the slit in his pants, tugging it wider, pushing zippers up and down to open a window of blue amid the leather. “All yours, baby.”

“No. No, I… I don’t want that.”

Well, he sure knows how to make a guy feel special. Yondu flops on his back, scowling at his mate. There’s a cold bite, as the opened seat of his pants meets metal. “What, you wanna take it?”

“No! No…”

“You wanna 69?”

“I… Yondu…”

“Hand job? Rimming? Feel free to pitch in, cause I’m runnin’ low on ideas here.”

“Yondu!” Kraglin looks pathetic. His mohawk is mussed, mouth puffy from kisses that had veered a little too close to bites. The royal blue glow of his cheeks has faded to pasty. 

How had the pair of them gone from writhing together, smoke-saturated and fevered from the battle, to this: two men sat apart, a small but insurmountable foot of distance between them? 

“I just. I want. I just want…” His hand lamely gropes air. “You,” Kraglin finishes, small as if his confession is shameful. He tucks his head, chin pressed to his chest tight enough that his next words are a mumble: “It’s all I want. All I ever want.”

His hand's still there. Yondu reflects, not for the first time, that despite his weedy figure and sallow complexion, Kraglin is by far the stronger of the pair. After all, he can bring himself to say what Yondu can’t. He’s the one to slam on the brakes, before they career off the tracks and go out in a blaze as mutual as it’s deadly.

The least Yondu can do is meet him halfway.

He fills that empty palm with his own. Plasters it to Kraglin’s, skin on skin, no space between. Their arms bridge the space that separates them, a gantry of clashing red leathers.

“Yeah,” says Yondu. His voice is thick and low. He doesn’t glance at the split seam over Kraglin’s groin. Just drinks the details of his face, whiskers and lashes and thin lips he’d very much like to kiss; gulps them down like he’s starving for them, like he’s been drowning in freshwater but never once thought to swallow. “Yeah, I getcha. Just you an’ me. None of this… this.”

Kraglin sags. “You an’ me,” he repeats. Yondu would usually mock him for copying him, but there’s only so many ways something heartfelt can be said. He nods.

“Until the end of the galaxy,” he says, scooching in (and surreptitiously doing up his rear zipper, because damn, he needs to invest in under-floor heating). Kraglin does the same, mirroring him. They converge with the simple certainty of gravity.

They’re watching each other. But there ain't no predator and there ain't no prey. They’re simply reading each other’s movements, neither trying to take control. 

They’re gonna need some practice at it, because they both turn the same way when they kiss and noses bonk like they’re three decades their junior. But they aren’t beaten that easily. They sit back, reassess, and move in again. 

This time Kraglin tilts left and Yondu tilts right. Their lips brush lightly enough that they can feel each other’s chaps: little flakes of dry skin, like the hooks on a brillo pad.

Tenderness is alien. Slowness too. But alien ain't necessarily bad – it's what they are to each other, after all.

The kiss is melty-soft, like they’re flowing into one another, passing essence back and forth on sour-tasting tongues. Stubble scratches like match paper, and they’re both tempting a serious case of beard-burn, what with how eagerly they’re nuzzling their faces together.

In short, it’s perfect.

“Wanna?” gasps Yondu, jerking his chin at the bed. He can’t make himself say  _make love,_ not yet. But Kraglin nods, smile giddy and gappy and beautiful as Yondu’s ever seen it. He squashes his kiss right there on his mate’s goofy teeth, and matches Kraglin’s grin with his own.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> **Hope you enjoyed! Leave a comment?**


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